


Silk and Salad

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Food Sex, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-30
Updated: 2008-08-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. The one where Brad wears a tiny red dress and there are sandwich toppings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Salad

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first imagined in an effort to make Sess laugh in a sandwich bar, and then told again on a crowded London subway. It’s dedicated to all the lovely people I met in London and to everyone on the subway now mentally scarred for life. I’m very sorry! *laughs* 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/indybaggins/media/dress1.jpg.html)  
> 

 

 

“Put it on,” Ryan says calmly. 

His voice sounds steady enough, he thinks. The two whiskeys he downed before this made sure of that. But still his hand shakes as he holds the red dress out to Brad. He’s nervous as fuck. 

“Put it on,” he says again, and Brad looks at him doubtfully. 

Ryan’s already hard because he can imagine it exactly, what the dress now crumpled up in his sweaty hand will look like stretched out on Brad’s body. He knows Brad can tell. 

But Brad is hesitating, giving him a last, steady look, maybe trying to find a flicker of humor, a sign that he’s not serious. 

Ryan opens his hand and lets the dress fall to the floor in a quick whoosh of fabric. 

 

The silk reflects light enticingly even lying in a splash of red on the floor. They both look at it for a moment, and then Ryan takes a step back, ready to walk away from this if he has to. Everyone has a breaking point, and this might be Brad’s. He’s ready to accept that. 

“Don’t,” Brad says, stopping him before he’s even fully moving. 

Ryan feverishly thinks he should have drunk another whiskey. He should never have asked Brad. He should never have…

Brad smiles shakily, “I said I would.” But he sounds unsure, still. 

Ryan nods and looks at the dress again. The intrusive presence of it looks like a puddle of blood between them on the hard wooden floor. It makes his stomach coil in anticipation. He bought it on a whim this afternoon, walking past the store window four times before getting the courage to go in. He had lied, of course, said it was for his wife. He had fingered the silk in the bag all the way home. 

By the time he can tear his eyes away Brad has started stripping, quickly and efficiently, his clothes landing left and right. Ryan already feels his heart beat heavily in his chest, but it has nothing to do with the pale flashes of Brad’s naked skin, and everything with the idea of the dress. God. 

When Brad finally grabs it, slips it over his head and shoulders and lets it fall down over his body, hug his shape, Ryan’s mouth goes dry. His imagination was nothing like the real thing.

This is better. 

 

The dress is all slick decadence, in turns tight and loose around Brad’s frame, rippling and shifting as he moves around in it experimentally, his hands gliding over the fabric. 

Ryan coughs, and tries to find something to say. “It’s…”

“Good?” Brad asks coyly, turning to the side, letting his see a hint of the low scoop back and the curve of his ass. 

Ryan swallows. “Yeah.” 

He’s stepping forward and reaching out before he knows it. 

The silk feels cool to the touch like before, but it’s completely different with a human being underneath, the contrast delicious, and he spends long moments just running his hands over Brad’s sides.

Brad laughs a little, and says something that sounds slightly teasing, but Ryan is not really paying attention to that anymore now. His breaths are speeding up and he could come from this thought alone, he knows. This closeness, this _wrongness_. 

He tries to smile at Brad, tries to convey something grateful and calming, but he’s not quite feeling calm himself right now so he’s not sure he’s successful. Brad shivers, and he can’t tell whether it’s from nerves or cold, but he can see the faint outline of one of Brad’s nipples under the silk, slowly growing more defined as he watches it. 

 

He wants to taste. He really, really wants to. 

Brad’s breath hitches as he traces his nails over the fabric. 

Ryan leans in, and puts a soft, teasing kiss right next to his nipple. Brad shifts, squirming a little, and so Ryan complies, opening his mouth, sucking the fabric into a wet circle. 

Brad groans, and so he does it again. 

He gets distracted doing that, by the sound of Brad’s breaths, by the dry taste of the fabric, for a while. It’s intoxicating. 

 

By the time he can think again Brad is hard too, his cock straining beautifully against the skirt. He’s sighing, eyes closed. 

Ryan glances at the table, and what’s waiting there, and Brad follows his look.

He tells him, “Get on the bed” and Brad goes easily.

He looks like a vision, lying there. Already slightly disheveled, his hair tousled, a couple wet spots on the dress. His cock is more pronounced lying down, actually lifting the fabric enough that when he follows Brad’s thighs he can catch a glimpse of what is underneath. 

Ryan takes a long moment to look, and then turns around. 

 

He had often imagined using lube, before. Splatter it over the dress, making it dirty, sticky, a truly fucked up fantasy. 

To Brad’s enormous credit, he had suggested something else completely. 

Ryan walks over to the table and smiles a little to himself when he sees the tomatoes. He fingers them for a long moment, revels in their texture, the wetness of the seeds inside. There’s a couple leaves of salad, too, and a jar of mayonnaise, of all things. It’s been out of the fridge for a while but it’s still condensing cold against his fingertips. 

This, this is even better. 

The tomato is wet and cold in his hand as Ryan takes it and carefully places it on Brad’s stomach, minutely moving up and down as he breathes. It’s almost the same color as the dress, and the silk sucks up the wetness right away, the stain slowly spreading like a flower. 

Ryan watches for a while, absent-mindedly rubbing Brad’s erection through the silk, feeling it spring back hotly against his hand, get firmer. He doesn’t waste time with the next slice, and the salad. It’s pure, unadulterated pleasure to see the mayonnaise land in big globs onto the silk, to stick his bare hand into the jar and rub it over Brad’s chest, catching the small hairs near his neck and on his bare legs. 

 

Ryan's clothes are getting in the way so he takes them off, hands slippery, the air smelling strongly of food. He can’t hide how much this is turning him on, his dick red and neglected and already wet at the tip, but Brad is looking at him trustingly. 

This is the best part. This is what he’s been waiting and longing for. He gets one knee on the bed, and then the other. 

Brad looks at him, and his skin feels electric with the tension of it. He carefully lowers himself over Brad’s body. Some parts are shockingly cold against his skin. The silk is warm, now. 

And then he starts moving. Brad groans, and holds on to the sheets. Ryan doesn’t pay him any attention; he’s lost in the feeling of the mess, the enormous delicious mess he’s making, rubbing between the both of them. 

 

The sounds are wet, squishing, and Brad even laughs a little at them, his body shaking. Ryan doesn’t notice, lost in the perfect, perfect feeling of it, the way the fabric is getting ruined forever, the way it’s so incredibly filthy.

Every thrust moves the dress up more and more over Brad’s thighs until it’s bunched up over his stomach and Ryan is thrusting there, into the folds of silk and warm hairy skin. The mayonnaise heats up between them, making it all hot and slippery and Brad is groaning, straining his body to give back as good as he’s getting. 

Ryan is breathing heavily, so close, and it’s the flurry of images, the smell, the feeling, the slick fast dirty _wrong_ that makes him come so hard that he sees stars and maybe forgets to breathe for a minute. 

When he blinks the room, the feeling into focus again, Brad is quiet and still underneath him. Ryan pushes himself up, his arms shaking, pieces of tomatoes and flat abused leaves of lettuce stuck to his chest. Brad is a mess, the mayonnaise everywhere. They are already sticking together beyond belief. 

Brad is looking away, a dark blush staining his cheeks. 

Ryan gathers up the courage to ask “did you…” and Brad looks at him, his eyes glittering “Oh yeah.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
